The Frightened Horse
by Stanley Marlowe
Summary: Just a quick short story about the last discussion that Vic and Vincent Vega have with each other before the events in their respective stories. Vic is impatient towards Vincent, and Vincent sees a parallel in the most unlikely place.


**_The Frightened Horse_**

_Stanley Marlowe_

The sound of the phone ringing was like someone shooting off a gun in the small room.

Vic Vega growled, and got up from his little bed. He'd slept in, the first time in years. He was finally out of jail, and off to meet the people who he'd given four years of his life for. They were going to hold up their part of the deal.

He glanced at the phone, wondering if this was Eddie or Joe giving him a heads-up. That'd be worth waking him up out of a nice goddamn sleep.

He picked it up, "Yeah?"

"What's goin' on, Vic?"

Vic froze. No, this couldn't be. Of all the people that he'd expected to be calling him, this was the one name that he'd considered impossible. Then again, it was also one of the most obvious.

He relaxed, and spoke into the phone, "Vincent?"

"No shit, Vic. Heard you just got out of prison yesterday."

Vic smiled despite himself, "You know what they say: can't keep Toothpick Vic locked up forever. How are you doing little bro?"

"I'm doing fine. I just came back from Amsterdam to work more closely for Marcellus. He wants me to team up with some guy named Jules Winnfield."

Vic was impressed, "Winnfield? That one's a bad son of a bitch. Take it from me."

Before Vincent could speak, there was a deafening roar in the phone. Vic jumped, thinking of a hail of bullets or a dozen car horns coming up, but then recognized cheering.

He chuckled, "Where the fuck are you?"

"Horse race. I've got five hundred on one of the top racers."

Vic laughed hard at that: leave it to Vincent, having just come back from Amsterdam, to immediately go to place a bet on a horse. Vic tried to think of the top racers out there now, but he'd never gotten much news about the races during his time in the joint.

Vincent spoke up again, "Hey, what do you know about Winnfield?"

Vic jumped out of his track of thought, trying to figure out sense in his head. After a pause, he spoke up, "Well, they say he's been with Wallace for a while. He's fond of quoting the Bible before he kills people. Actually he usually uses that Ezekiel passage, but they say that he misquotes it."

Vincent laughed, "What the fuck? How the hell can they know that if he kills them after saying it?"

Vic realized his mistake, and frowned to himself, "He's had partners before, Vincent. It's obvious. enough"

Vincent went quiet at his brother's tone, then spoke defensively, "Chill, Vic, it was just a joke."

Vic groaned; his brother always acted like a little bitch when he thought he wasn't being respected. Vic remembered how Vincent would pick fights with his older brothers and get himself into situations that would just get himself in a shit load of trouble.

Vic knew that Vincent would continue to sulk if he didn't apologize, and after this, he knew that Vincent would immediately pretend to not have been too offended. His happiness at hearing his brother's voice again soured in Vic's stomach.

Vincent, as expected, blew the whole thing off. He cheerfully tried to ask about how Vic had done in prison, but talking about prison was the last thing that Vic wanted to do at this moment. For God's sake he just got out!

But as he'd promised his mother at her death bed, he remained patient and kind with Vincent. He tried to summarize it as much as possible, and avoided further explanation by asking Vincent about Amsterdam.

Vincent laughed in reminiscent memory of Amsterdam, "I swear to God, Vic, if you get the chance, buy a fucking plane ticket to Amsterdam. It's the perfect city for you, man. Lots of drugs, lots of whores, lots of booze, and a far better chance of staying under the radar."

Vic liked what he heard, but knew that Vincent was only telling him the good stuff. He didn't mention anything about how many people spoke English in that city, or how many police cruised around. He ought to ask someone else for some more info.

He looked at his watch; it was ten o' clock. He was hungry, and wanted breakfast.

Telling Vincent as much, Vic bade him a brief goodbye, telling him to call him back later on in the month. Vincent cheerfully agreed, and hung up.

Vic sighed, and slammed the phone down.

"" "" "" """ "" """ "" "" ""

Vincent laughed to himself as he put the phone back to where it belonged, and he stepped out of the booth. His race wasn't going to start until another half hour.

He thought about what Vic had said to him. The guy had sounded tired and distracted. Prison must have really fucked him up something awful, Vincent thought to himself. Vic hadn't really been the most stable of guys, but he seemed to be getting worse. Shit, Vic had flipped out at _him_, his baby brother, for no reason. A joke, nothing more. Vincent figured he'd wait a bit before calling his brother up again.

As he thought this over he headed towards the bleachers. He glanced at the gates; the horses were just being positioned. He still had time.

Sitting back in his chair, Vincent looked out at the track. This was going to be a harsh race, no mistake about that. But these horses knew what to do. He looked at the sixth gate: he had half a thousand on that animal, so he'd better damn well win this race.

He thought about Vic again as he sipped at an already half-empty bottle of Sprite. Vic had always seemed the coolest cat in the alleyway as far as Vincent was concerned. That made it odd to hear Vic sound so stressed and grim. What the fuck had happened to him in there?

Vincent shrugged to himself as he wondered about it, but then the horses burst out of their cages like jack-in-the-boxes. They headed down the first stretch, nearing the first curve. Vincent smiled confidently as the sixth horse quickly neared the front, but never wasting too much energy. The rider knew what he was doing, Vincent thought.

The horses began to finish off the first curve, and Vincent's thoughts drifted back to his brother all of a sudden. The guy had been unshakeable as a youth. He'd made it clear to the other little Vega brothers that he was the strongest, the most calm, and most efficient of the group. But while he'd never let his brothers down, they'd also been nervous of him. Something in his cold eyes had repelled people, except maybe a few silly high school girls that soon found nothing appealing about Vic as a boyfriend.

Vincent himself had been more of a ladies' man. He'd been judged the best-looking of the brothers, and as a result had gotten around more often than Vic or the older ones. Vic had never shown much envym but nevertheless, Vincent had never used it against Vic; it hadn't seemed like a big advantage over Vic.

When they got out of school early, Vic had known where he was going. And he hadn't looked back once. Vincent had been more cautious, but just as successful after a few years. Maybe it was because he was known primarily as the younger Vega brother. But he had earned his reputation out there; how else had Marcellus Wallace hired him?

He jolted back into the race. The horse he was rooting for was still looking the best of the horses out on the track. But Vincent could tell from the close-up view he had thanks to the binoculars, that the horse was starting to really sweat. The guy looked urgent too, as far as Vincent could tell.

He took a sip from his Sprite and wondered what had happened to Vic to make him seem so much older and less established. The guy sounded pretty manic, even for him. All Vincent could think was, it's a good thing they worked for different people. Vic had never been bothered by Vincent's boss, and Vincent had been grateful that he'd never had to confront Vic on order of his boss, but Marcellus and Joe Cabot seemed to mutually agree that the brothers should never meet on opposite sides.

'Was that it?' Vincent wondered, 'Was this some kind of stress that every guy went through in the middle of his life?'

He was going to keep thinking about it when suddenly the cheering went up by four times the volume. The race was nearing an end. The horses were putting forth their final efforts now, going at full gallop. Vincent felt himself catch some of the fervour going through the spectators. He almost started cheering along with the others, but caught himself just in time. He wasn't going to act like an ape, standing up and waving his arms and hollering louder than the announcer.

But he was excited: the sixth horse was in the lead! The rider was leaning forward with glee, as if he was running instead of riding the horse. The horse seemed to read his rider's mind because it was going faster and faster.

Vincent saw that there were metres left. Metres! The money was his for sure!

He was still cheering as the horse suddenly slipped, causing the rider to fly forward and only just save himself by rolling off the track.

Vincent was stunned, and all around him people screamed in shock. What the fucking hell? Vincent swore out loud as he craned forward to see what had possibly happened. Had there been a setup? A deliberate bribe by the rider?

No, it seemed, as strange as it was, that it had been an accident. The horse had tripped: impossible to avoid with very limited time to react. Vincent was astonished at the rider's quick moves.

He wondered how things like that could happen. One minute everything's cruising along fine, then in the middle of everything, out of the fucking blue, something happens that fucks everything up. Like the horse, like the rider, and (Vincent swallowed uneasily) like Vic.

Vincent sighed at this coincidence, and went off to go meet with Marcellus about this new partner thing.


End file.
